Midnight Read online

  MIDNIGHT

  Stephen Leather

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK Company

  Copyright © Stephen Leather 2011

  The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author

  of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 9781848945722

  Book ISBN 9781444700671

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  Midnight

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Also by Stephen Leather

  About the Author

  1

  It wasn’t the first dead body that he’d ever seen, and Jack Nightingale was fairly sure it wouldn’t be the last. The woman looked as if she was in her late thirties but Nightingale knew she was only thirty-one. She had curly brown hair, neatly plucked eyebrows and pale pink lipstick, and her neck was at a funny angle, which suggested that the washing line around her neck had done more than just strangle her when she’d dropped down the stairwell. She was wearing a purple dress with a black leather belt. One of her shoes had fallen off and was lying at the bottom of the stairs, the other dangled precariously from her left foot. A stream of urine had trickled down her legs and pooled on the stair carpet, turning the rust-coloured pile a dark brown. Death was always accompanied by the evacuation of bowels, Nightingale knew. It was one of the unwritten rules. You died and your bowels opened as surely as night followed day.

  He stood looking up at the woman. Her name was Constance Miller and it was the first time he had ever laid eyes on her. From the look of it she’d stood at the top of the stairs, looped a piece of washing line around her neck and tied the other end around the banister, then dropped over, probably head first. The momentum had almost certainly broken her neck and she probably hadn’t felt much pain, but even so it couldn’t have been a pleasant way to go.

  Nightingale took out his pack of Marlboro and a blue disposable lighter. ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’ He tapped out a cigarette and slipped it between his lips. ‘You look like a smoker, Constance. And I saw the ashtray on the kitchen table so I’m guessing this isn’t a non-smoking house.’

  He flicked the lighter, lit the cigarette and inhaled. As he blew a loose smoke ring down at the stained carpet, the woman’s arms twitched and her eyes opened. Nightingale froze, the cigarette halfway to his mouth.

  The woman’s arms flailed, her legs trembled and she began to make a wheezing sound through clenched teeth. Suddenly her eyes opened wide. ‘Your sister is going to Hell, Jack Nightingale,’ she said, her voice a strangled rasp. Then her eyes closed and her body went still.

  Nightingale cursed and ran to the kitchen. The back door was open the way he’d left it. Next to the sink was a pinewood block with half a dozen plastic-handled knives embedded in it. He stubbed out his cigarette, took one of the biggest knives and ran back to the hall. He took the stairs two at a time until he was level with her then he reached over and grabbed her around the waist. He grunted as he hefted her against his shoulder and climbed up the stairs to take the weight off the washing line. He held her tight with his left arm as he sawed at the line with the knife. It took half a dozen goes before it parted and her head slumped over his shoulder.

  She was the wrong side of the banister and he couldn’t pull her over so he let her weight carry him down the stairs until her feet were touching the floor, then he lowered her as best he could before letting go. She fell against the wall and slid down it, her hair fanning out as the back of her head scraped across the wallpaper. Nightingale hurried around the bottom of the stairs just as the woman fell face down on the carpet. He rolled her over and felt for a pulse in her neck with his left hand, but there was nothing. He sat back on his heels, gasping for breath. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs, revealing her soiled underwear, and Nightingale pulled it down.

  ‘Get away from her!’ bellowed a voice behind him.

  As he turned he saw a burly uniformed police sergeant wearing a stab vest and pointing a finger at him. Just behind him was a younger PC, tall and thin and holding an extended tactical baton in his gloved hand.

  ‘Drop the knife!’ shouted the sergeant, fumbling for his baton in its nylon holster on his belt.

  Nightingale stared at the knife in his
right hand. He turned back to look at the cops but before he could open his mouth to speak the young PC’s baton crashed against his head and Nightingale slumped to the floor, unconscious before he hit the carpet.

  2

  The superintendent was in his early fifties, his brown hair flecked with grey, and he studied Nightingale through thick-lensed spectacles. He was in uniform, but he’d undone his jacket buttons when he sat down at the table. Next to him was a younger man in a grey suit, a detective who had yet to introduce himself. Nightingale sat opposite them and watched the detective trying to take the plastic wrapping off a cassette tape.

  ‘You’ve not gone digital, then?’ asked Nightingale.

  The superintendent nodded at the tape recorder on the shelf by Nightingale’s head. ‘Please don’t say anything until the tape’s running,’ he said. He took off his spectacles and methodically wiped the lenses with a pale blue handkerchief.

  ‘That could be a while, the way he’s going,’ said Nightingale.

  The detective put the tape to his mouth, ripped away a piece of the plastic with his teeth and then used his nails to finish the job. He slid the cassette into one of the twin slots, then started work on a second tape. Nightingale figured the man was in his mid-twenties and still on probation with the CID. He kept looking nervously at the superintendent, like a puppy that expected to be scolded at any moment.

  The custody sergeant who had taken Nightingale from the holding cell had given him a bottle of water and a packet of crisps and they were both on the table in front of him. He opened the bottle and drank from it, wiped his mouth on the paper sleeve of the forensic suit they’d given him to wear when they took away his clothes and shoes. On his feet were paper overshoes with elastic at the top.

  The detective finally got the wrapping off the second tape and slotted it into the recorder before nodding at the superintendent.

  ‘Switch it on, lad,’ said the superintendent. The detective flushed and did as he was told. The recording light glowed red. ‘Right.’ He checked his wristwatch. ‘It is a quarter past three on the afternoon of November the thirtieth. I am Superintendent William Thomas and with me is . . .’ He nodded at the detective.

  ‘Detective Constable Simon Jones,’ said the younger man. He began to spell out his surname but the superintendent cut him short with a wave of his hand.

  ‘We can all spell, lad,’ said the superintendent. He looked over at the recorder to check that the tapes were running. ‘We are interviewing Mr Jack Nightingale. Please give us your date of birth, Mr Nightingale.’

  Nightingale did as he was asked.

  ‘So your birthday was three days ago?’ said the superintendent.

  ‘And you didn’t get me a present,’ said Nightingale, stretching out his legs and folding his arms. ‘I’m not being charged with anything, am I?’

  ‘At the moment you’re helping us with our enquiries into a suspicious death.’

  ‘She killed herself,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘We’re still waiting for the results of the autopsy.’

  ‘She was hanging from the upstairs banister when I found her.’

  ‘You were bent over her with a knife in your hand when two of my officers apprehended you,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘Your men beat the crap out of me,’ said Nightingale, gingerly touching the plaster on the side of his head. ‘I used the knife to cut her down.’

  ‘One blow, necessary force,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘I was an innocent bystander,’ said Nightingale. ‘Wrong place, wrong time. They didn’t give me a chance to explain.’

  ‘Apparently they asked you to drop your weapon and when you didn’t comply they used necessary force to subdue you.’

  ‘First of all, it wasn’t a weapon; it was a knife I’d taken from the kitchen to cut her down. And second of all, they hit me before I could open my mouth.’ He pointed at the paper suit he was wearing. ‘And when am I getting my clothes back?’

  ‘When they’ve been forensically examined,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘She killed herself,’ said Nightingale. ‘Surely you must have seen that. She tied a washing line around her neck and jumped.’

  ‘That’s not what women normally do,’ said the superintendent. ‘Female suicides, I mean. They tend to swallow sleeping pills or cut their wrists in a warm bath. Hanging is a very male thing. Like death by car.’

  ‘I bow to your superior knowledge, but I think I’d rather go now.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve answered some questions.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m under arrest?’

  ‘At the moment you’re helping us with our enquiries,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘So I’m free to go whenever I want?’

  ‘I would prefer that you answer my questions first. If you’ve done nothing wrong then you shouldn’t have any problems talking to us.’ Thomas leaned forward and looked at Nightingale over the top of his spectacles. ‘You’re not one of those Englishmen who think the Welsh are stupid, are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said the superintendent. ‘Us and the Irish, you English do like to take the piss, don’t you? Calling us sheep-shaggers and the like.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about you coming into our small town and causing mayhem,’ said the superintendent. ‘And acting as if it’s no big thing.’ He linked his fingers and took a deep breath. ‘Because it is a big thing, Nightingale. It’s a very big thing.’

  ‘She was dead when I got there.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘What does the coroner say?’

  ‘We’re still waiting on the exact time of death, but it looks as if it’s going to be too close to call.’

  ‘She was swinging from the banister when I got there.’

  ‘And her DNA is all over your clothes.’

  ‘Because I cut her down. Trying to save her.’

  ‘You said she was dead. Why were you trying to save a dead woman?’

  ‘I didn’t know she was dead. I just saw her hanging there. Then she moved.’

  ‘Moved?’

  ‘She was shaking and she was making sounds.’

  ‘So she wasn’t dead?’

  ‘No, she was dead. Some sort of autonomic reaction. I got a knife from the kitchen and cut her down. I checked for life signs and there were none. That’s when your guys arrived.’

  ‘Which raises two questions, doesn’t it?’ said the superintendent. ‘Why didn’t you call the police? And what were you doing in the house?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to phone anyone,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d just finished checking for a pulse when your men stormed in and beat me unconscious.’

  ‘I’m told that you were resisting arrest,’ said the superintendent. ‘A neighbour called nine-nine-nine to say that a stranger had just entered Miss Miller’s house. When they arrived they found you crouched over her, holding a knife.’

  ‘They didn’t say anything, just clubbed me to the ground.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been in the house,’ said the superintendent. ‘It’s not as if she invited you, is it?’

  ‘The back door was open,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Even so,’ said the superintendent. ‘You committed trespass at best, and at worst . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A woman is dead, Nightingale. And you still haven’t explained why you were in the house.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘There you are again, suggesting that the Welsh are stupid.’ He banged the flat of his hand down hard on the table and Nightingale flinched. ‘Start talking, Nightingale. I’m getting fed up with your games.’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘I think she’s my sister.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s compli
cated.’

  ‘Complicated as the fact that her name is Miller and yours is Nightingale?’

  ‘She never married?’

  ‘Miller is the name she was born with. So how can you be her brother?’

  ‘Stepbrother. Or half-brother. We’ve got the same father.’

  ‘And would the father’s name be Nightingale or Miller?’

  ‘Neither. Gosling. Ainsley Gosling.’

  ‘So you’re telling me that Gosling was your father and hers and yet all three of you have different names?’

  ‘I was adopted. So was my sister. We were both adopted at birth.’

  ‘And so what were you doing at her house today? Surprise visit, was it?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘About what?’

  Nightingale bit down on his lower lip. There was no way on earth the superintendent would believe Nightingale if he answered that question honestly. In the cold light of day he wasn’t even sure if he believed it himself. ‘I’d just found out that she was my sister. I wanted to meet her.’

  ‘Did you call her first?’

  Nightingale shook his head.

  ‘For the tape please, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘No, I didn’t call her.’

  ‘You just thought you’d pop round? From London?’

  ‘I wanted to see her.’

  ‘So you drove all the way from London for a surprise visit?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,’ said Nightingale. ‘It wasn’t about surprising her. I just wanted to . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to explain.’

  ‘You see, any normal person would have phoned first. Made contact that way and then arranged a convenient time to meet. Not turned up unannounced.’

  ‘I’m a very spontaneous person,’ said Nightingale. He wanted a cigarette, badly.

  ‘And what made you think that Connie Miller is your sister? Or half-sister?’

  ‘I got a tip.’

  ‘What sort of tip?’

  ‘I was given her first name. And the name of the town.’

  ‘And that was enough to find her?’

  ‘I knew how old she is. Was. She was the only thirty-one-year-old woman called Constance in Abersoch.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘You can check the electoral roll yourself. It’s all computerised these days.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you for a fact that Connie Miller isn’t related to you. I know her parents. I’ve known them for years. And they’ve just been to identify her body.’